


Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [4]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Edgeplay, Episode Tag: The Bait, Foot Massage, Handcuffs, Implied Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Roleplay, Shibari, Spanking, Unsafe Sex, cops and robbers, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “You two really are straight!”“Well, in a kinky kinda way.”Or, the one where lines from Episode 1x9 "The Bait" turn into smut prompts. Five lines that lead to sex and one line that doesn't. New tags will be added for each chapter, so heed warnings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“You two really are straight!”_
> 
> _“Well, in a kinky kinda way.”_

“Hutch, I’m pretty sure this isn’t how this is supposed to go,” Starsky observes, as Hutch fumbles the knot for the third time. “Show me the book again?”

It was a romantic idea in theory; in practice Starsky thinks maybe they’d had a little too much wine while they were working themselves up to it and now he’s a little dizzy and Hutch doesn’t seem like he’s really understanding all the diagrams.

“Shut up and drink your wine,” Hutch says, eyes fixed on the book of Shibari in front of him. “They don’t tell you to gag your partner, but if this book weren’t an antique, I’d pencil that in. Stop squirming! Can’t you sit still?”

It’s kind of killing the mood otherwise set by the fluffy pillows, soft music, and about fifty candles lighting the room. It’s a trust exercise, partially, an erotic experience, too, and Hutch thought it would look and feel classier than that one time (that was really more than once) with the handcuffs. They aren’t 100% planning on things getting amorous, but supplies stand by just in case. Starsky is rocking back and forth on Hutch’s yoga mat sitting on his low coffee table, while Hutch tries to bind one arm to his leg in an intricate series of knots.

“I also can’t believe you don’t bend this way. You seriously need to stretch more,” Hutch accuses, pointing to another picture.

Them grousing at each other is _also_ ruining the mood.

“It’s not like I’m not trying,” Starsky grunts. He’d sat down in a great mood, totally willing to try this with Hutch, but it seemed to require contortion just as much as it required more knots than most sailors knew. “That one big knot at my ankle’s putting my foot to sleep.”

He also found that while the rope was very soft, surprisingly silky even, it tended to ride into places that got itchy from the contact, leaving Starsky shifting to try and find the best way to relieve it.

“I’m suddenly not sure I see what was so wrong with the handcuffs,” Starsky mutters, and then hisses. “You keep pinching my hair!”

“Well, you’re just so hairy!” Hutch cries, though he does feel bad about this and sighs, looping the ends of the knots through each other only for them to come loose in his hands. He was going to have to turn in his badge for knots in Sea Scouts: this was embarrassing. “Okay, you think you could do better, genius?”

“I dunno, but I’m sure I couldn’t do much worse,” Starsky says, shifting over so that he’s laying in Hutch’s lap and looking endearingly up at him. He gives a couple of shifts and kicks his legs free, and then shrugs at Hutch helplessly. “And you’re more flexible than I am. Let me give it a try, right? At the very least if I can do it, I can walk you through the knots.”

Hutch is surprised by the offer—not that he thinks Starsky can’t do it, but he does suspect that he’ll give up in half the time. He winds up the lengths of rope so as to be most useful.

“Be my guest,” he says, and Hutch finishes undressing as they trade places.

Starsky pauses to take another sip of wine now that his hands are free, then considers the diagrams in the book, which he’s pretty sure is written in Japanese, then Hutch, sitting naked on his own coffee table on a yoga mat, and Starsky just smiles a long, slow smile.

“Say, you know you could almost be art just like that?” he observes, but he’s looping the rope into his hands before he begins at Hutch’s foot, pushing him down onto his back as he works on making the first stirrup loops as are shown in the images.

“Cute,” Hutch says, though he preens a little secretly and straightens up.

“Oh, this is an overhand knot!”

The realization almost seems to make Starsky giddy, and his focus increases as he starts to get the hang of it, taking his time only with the first couple loops before he realizes the pattern and almost in no time, he has Hutch’s leg tied in a bend that holds his calf against his thigh, and then gets to work on the more elaborate loops and weaves of the harness over Hutch’s body, suddenly into it. It’s like a very physical puzzle that takes almost all of his concentration, though Starsky pauses occasionally to reference the book, check if something is too tight, or drink his wine.

If Hutch’s pride is wounded that Starsky picks it up like he’d been doing it all his life, it’s quickly overtaken by the involuntary blush that blooms across his cheeks and chest at the eroticism of this, of finally getting how it’s supposed to go and feel. The rope is snug but comfortable, oddly, as long as he doesn’t mind moving from his position, and he’s held yoga poses for longer.

He stops, too, to kiss Hutch’s cheek. “Should I tell you now or later that this is just how my ma used to lace up the thanksgiving turkey?”

“Definitely should wait til you’ve tied down all limbs,” Hutch laughs, sticking his fingers in the way and messing up where Starsky is looping ropes down his arms in the same intricate patterns as his legs. “Bet your ma never trussed up a turkey this pretty, anyway.”

“No sir,” Starsky agrees, patiently re-working his loops around Hutch’s fingers if he’s going to get them in the way. He gives a little tug and the ropes slither and then Hutch’s hand is bound tight against his belly, and Starsky pulls the remaining length of cord down along the join of his thigh, then over again, getting his fingers in to make sure the rope is snug against Hutchs’ balls but not painful. “Nobody ever had a prettier turkey than you.”

Hutch laughs and lets Starsky roll him to one side to complete the ties, as the other arm goes behind his back. “That's fine, but can we stop talking about your mother’s cooking at a time like this?”

The reason being that Hutch's dick was starting to swell in interest at these proceedings, at the little knots resting snug around his balls, at how sensuous the ropes and Starsky’s hands feel over his skin.

“I guess so,” Starsky says, reaching out now to tuck the last length of rope into place without tying any firm knot. The beauty of all this was how quick it would come off, he thinks. Just unravel like so much knitting, but in the meantime, Starsky gets his hand on Hutch’s cock and strokes it, just watching how it strains upward, how his body tries to move but can’t do much more than surge. “You know, I think you’re onto something with this, Hutch.”

“Starsky,” Hutch says, intending to sound warning, though it comes out pleading, using his one free leg as his only leverage to arch into Starsky’s hand. He hadn't really thought this far ahead, not when he had planned on tying Starsky up like this, and certainly now _he_ was the one tied up, all his vague ideas of probably fucking Starsky long and slow had quite gone from his head. Starsky’s hand is warm and firm, and Hutch wants more of it, fingers twitching in their netting.

“Oh, I didn’t realize this was a ‘look but don’t touch’ sport,” Starsky teases, easing his hand away from Hutch’s cock to palm up the inside of his thigh, over the loops of rope and expanses of skin while Hutch whines. He doesn’t manage to tease for very long before he’s going back for more. Something about the way Hutch’s whole body goes tense, and then relaxes in waves, the way it seems to match the slow, eager pulse of his dick in Starsky’s hand, it’s very alluring. Enough that Starsky’s really enjoying just watching.

Hutch gasps and arches, rolling impatiently into his partner’s touch, and greedy for more, he’s sure, only because he’s at the mercy of whatever Starsky wants to give him. “Damn it, Starsk.”

He’s barely moving, but he’s panting with the exertion it takes to not be able to move. Surprising himself with his lack of patience, Hutch grinds out, “Stop teasing me.”

“And waste my one chance, after you let me tie you up?” Starsky says, pulling Hutch toward him with a slightly obscene squeak of the yoga mat over his coffee table, like one might reposition a tray of pastries at dinner, and he leans down to fix his mouth at the hollow of Hutch’s throat, and then lower, the flat of his tongue and teeth over one of Hutch’s nipples, then the other, before he sits up just a little, hovering over Hutch’s body with both his hands on the table now. “Never.”

Starsky’s mouth is hot enough to feel like it’s burning. Hutch’s huff turns into a slight whimper as Starsky’s hand leaves his body, and his glare is not as sharp as he intends it to be. He wriggles slightly, but the knots aren’t going to just unravel without help, and he tilts his chin up a little defiantly. “Well. You’ve got me.” _What are you going to do with me?_ remains implied.

“I think we need to move you onto the bed,” Starsky says, considering how best to do this, but there doesn’t seem to be an easy answer. Instead, he gets up, and then, after a brief assessment of the situation he rolls Hutch up in the yoga mat and slings him up against his chest to keep everything as supported as he can so nothing’s pulled or tugged, and then moves him.

“Starsk!” Hutch cries, but it’s over before Hutch can even really protest being manhandled like a sack of potatoes, and before he gets too heavy for Starsky to manage.

Rummaging in Hutch’s bedside table, Starsky comes up with a condom, and settles down on his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed, working the package open with his eyes on Hutch. “Everything still feel okay, partner?”

“Yeah,” Hutch grunts, squirming so he’s not laying heavily on the arm that’s bound up behind him. Otherwise it’s actually, oddly, weirdly comfortable, very secure, and even, he admits to himself, thrilling to be so vulnerable for his partner. “The yoga mat burrito wasn’t in the book, though. I like how you’re getting creative.”

“Easiest way to keep all your limbs together,” Starsky says, giving Hutch a half-grin that’s just shy of shit eating. “They’re all so long, anyway.”

“Maybe you should have tied them all up better,” Hutch says, wriggling the leg that's mostly free and grinning.

Starsky eases the condom onto Hutch, with a firm stroke of his hand and a strong grip, helping Hutch get arranged and comfortable, before he gets his mouth on his partner’s cock, and one hand on his balls to smooth his rough thumb over them, rolling them against his fingers and feeling the way the rope shifts over Hutch’s skin, then behind, just teasing against Hutch’s entrance with the pads of his fingers as he sucks his cock.  

Hutch groans and throws his head back, leg and fingers twitching. “Ohh, Starsky. You don't have to do th-that. I'm already—”

He was ready to come just from being tied up and touched by his partner like this, already shivering near constantly from it.

It’s extremely satisfying to know what they can do for each other while hardly even touching each other. Starsky doesn’t let up, humming just enough approval that he hears Hutch echo a response in a throaty groan as he pushes up what little he can to get to Starsky’s mouth. Then Starsky eases off Hutch’s cock and back further still, a little clever engineering sliding a second condom under the ropes to hold it in place so he can press his tongue where his fingers had just been in firm, probing sweeps with a layer of latex safe between them, and still have his hands free to hold the rope out of the way and stroke Hutch’s cock at the same time.

“Oh my God, Starsk!” Hutch shouts, because despite his rather broader experience, no one has ever done _this_ for him before. His whole body tingles, his eyes nearly crossing. “Jesus, Starsk. Buddy, I-I can't—”

“Don’t,” Starsky says, pausing to press a kiss against Hutch’s thigh. “Don’t hold back, babe, just let it happen.”

Starsky hoists him a little higher, hooking his hand into the ropes to help Hutch hold position for his mouth, stroking him hard with his hand and teasing Hutch with his tongue until Starsky hears him come apart, and he almost feels it like it’s his own release, that’s how good it is even for Starsky, just knowing what he does for Hutch.

“Starsky, Starsk,” Hutch gasps as orgasm shatters him, and he’s sure the shibari work is the only thing holding him together. “Fuck me, I need you to fuck me now. Please.”

“Alright,” Starsky huffs, breathing out hard, fumbling to get another package open, on, to shift the ropes out of the way and get everything slick and ready, leaning over Hutch, pressing their mouths together, on the ragged edge of raw and desperate, as he pries Hutch open for this, rushed and sloppy, but he’s watching; watching Hutch’s eyes, his face, watching the way his mouth works into an open shape instead of gritting his teeth against any pain, and then he hitches his hands up under Hutch’s bound up hip and angles their bodies together so he can slide in, claiming him in a motion that’s not quite rough but runs along the line of it.

Hutch grunts, shutting his eyes. It’s hard like this, but it doesn’t hurt, exactly. His body is wrung out and relaxed, so he’s taking him just fine, but every sense is heightened now, too, and he _feels_ it, in a raw way.

“Alright,” Starsky breathes again, leaning down to get their mouths together, and his hands in the ropes as he thrusts, just as quick as he’s sure they both want.

“Alright,” Hutch answers, and by chance or design, the hand bound across his chest comes loose, and he tugs it free of the ropes to grab the hair at the back of Starsky’s head and kiss him harder, like he’s his only source of air and he’s drowning.

He hears rather than feels Starsky come apart, hears when he stops breathing and then sighs out and goes slack. His grip shifts tender, rubbing Starsky’s back, murmuring kisses in his ear, “Love you, love you, that’s it, come here. Thank you. I’ve got you, handsome.”

Starsky undoes the main loops holding everything together and tugs them free, hanging onto Hutch with one arm and working with the other until Hutch’s leg comes free, until his hands are unbound. Then he pulls their bodies together comfortably, so they can both relax in the haze together. Shifting once, Starsky ejects the yoga mat from the bed.

“You’re officially better than any Turkey I ever met,” Starsky tells Hutch, earnestly.

Hutch laughs weakly, flopping his limbs loosely around his partner, not sure what else to do with them now that he has them back. “There’s a joke about _stuffing_ in there, but I’m not gonna make it.”

And if the one thing Hutch _can_ get right tonight is startling a laugh out of his partner at the terrible pun, he’ll take it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“You know a good dry cleaner? We’re about to get dirty.”_

There are very few things Starsky likes more than stripping the clothes off Hutch, he discovers. Fast, slow, it doesn’t matter. There’s something about the way revealing skin works, and the way Hutch flushes all the way down his collarbone, pink tracing his sternum, even when he’s bruised from the day. 

“Hey,” Starsky says, peeling off Hutch’s fancy shirt, meeting his eyes once the garment is off. “You know, I could get used to these clothes on you.”

He waits a beat, just long enough for Hutch to start to find a response before adding, “I could get even more used to them  _ off _ you.”

Hutch had opened his mouth to reply before Starsky cut him off, and he lets out the air in a huff, rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, Starsk, I don’t  _ care  _ if you don’t like them, but these clothes were expensive and need to be hung up if I’m going to use them undercover again,” he says, trying to duck past Starsky, but his partner blocks his progress. There’s a slightly crazy look in his eyes that Hutch likes— _ would _ like at any other time, if this weren’t a $30 silk shirt and these $60 trousers that had to be special ordered to be long enough to go with his boots. He tries to push past him again, and growls, “Starsky, I’m serious.” 

Without the height advantage, it takes some doing to crowd Hutch, but Starsky does it, shoving Hutch back against his own closet door and leaving the shirt on the floor where he’d dropped it originally. The jacket, at least, had made it over the back of a chair when Starsky threw it. “And I don’t look serious?”

“Starsk!” Hutch shouts, once more, in protest, but the heat spreading up his chest to his cheeks gives him away. It’s the eyes that make him such a pushover, Hutch thinks. Starsky’s eyes go stormy-gray, his eyebrows an intense line, and Hutch isn’t sure when he last blinked, much less looked away. 

It just takes a little leverage. A good shove to get Hutch off balance and pinned against the door with one of Starsky’s knees between his legs, his hands on the buttons of his fly and his mouth at Hutch’s neck. “I’m really serious. Forget your clothes.”

Hutch huffs once more, but only so he doesn’t moan quite so immediately. His head falls back against the wall and he shows Starsky his open hands out to either side, if he’s even looking. He rolls his hips once, grinding against Starsky’s thigh, and, shit, he really is easy for this. Easy for his partner. “A-at least don’t  _ rip  _ anything.” 

“Make it easy for me,” Starsky tells him, a low purr that suggests he knows that’s what Hutch is already  _ doing _ , but there’s a forcefulness that suggests if he wants to keep things untorn, he’ll keep it up. Starsky works the button on Hutch’s ridiculous maroon pants, and if he has to peel them off Hutch’s hips, well, he’d noticed all day the way they fit. When Hutch starts to move forward, Starsky pushes him back again, lets him move only enough to step out of the pants before Starsky gives them an absent kick behind them. 

Hutch doesn't even spare them a second glance.

At least they’d made it into their socks first so nothing in Hutch’s apartment got broken by thrown cowboy boots. When all this is done, Starsky leans his shoulder into Hutch to keep him still and gets his hand on him through the last barrier of his underwear, firm grip and hot palm, almost kneading him hard rather than stroking. 

“Fuck,” Hutch groans, hands coming up to grasp at Starsky’s elbows as his hand makes him see stars. He isn’t sure what’s gotten into his partner, but he’s sure he likes it, playing coy now only on principle. 

Hutch hits the back of the door with his head. So. Easy. 

“What do you want from me?” Hutch asks breathlessly, because  _ he’s _ getting what he wants already, and Starsky doesn’t have to manhandle him around as much as he could just tell him what to do—he’s a good midwest boy who follows orders with a  _ Yes, sir _ —but he bucks his hips and comes up from the wall in case what Starsky wants from him is a little resistance. 

“You,” Starsky says, like that’s a simple answer. He wants Hutch to come apart in his hands like a very expensive shirt might; unraveling slowly under the force of his attentions. That sounds a little more violent than Starsky intends, but maybe at least as forceful. He pushes Hutch back against the door again, rattling it in it’s frame but it’s more sound than fury. Giving him a warning look that’s all flashing blue eyes in low light, Starsky presses for a second longer than is necessary. “Stay right there.”

It’s a short trip to the bedside table, and Starsky knows his way around Hutch’s place so well he doesn’t have to fumble to come up with the lubricant, two condoms from an obscenely long strip of interconnected packages that Starsky has to ask about sometime. Does Hutch buy factory direct? Sometime _ later _ . 

With Starsky on the other side of the room, Hutch’s brain clears, slightly, of the haze of lust—just enough to be amused by the situation, by Starsky’s intensity and his own complicity. He stays right where he’s instructed, still blushing, dick straining in his underwear (these less expensive, and maybe he protested too much because he entertains a brief fantasy of Starsky tearing these off of him), and a lazy grin spreading across his face. 

Starsky tosses the bottle ahead of himself, watching Hutch scramble to catch it with a glassy-eyed clumsiness that’s uncharacteristic but reveals a lot of how much he wants this, and Starsky soothes down any apprehensions that he’s being overly aggressive when Hutch hangs onto the bottle as Starsky sheds his own jacket and shirt, dropping his belt  to add to the disarray. He leans in again, getting his hand in Hutch’s hair, turning his head with an application of leverage and pushing his mouth behind Hutch’s ear; first soft, a kiss, and then the blunt squeeze of his teeth over the tendon in Hutch’s neck, just to make sure he’s paying attention. “Hey. Say ‘stop’ if you need to, right?”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Hutch says, actually whimpering at the introduction of teeth against his neck, but when Starsky’s face clouds into something of a frown, Hutch realizes he wasn’t joking, and tugs against the hand holding his hair so he can kiss him. “I  _ know _ , Starsky. I don’t want you to stop. You don’t have to be gentle with  _ me _ .” 

“Just making sure you knew,” Starsky tells him, hooking his first two fingers into the fly front of Hutch’s underwear and down into the join seam, as if testing it for a weakness before he tugs just enough to pop a few stitches, the backs of his fingers rubbing along the underside of Hutch’s cock as he flexes his strength against the fabric. “You wanna get these off for me, huh?”

“ _ Starsky _ ,” Hutch says, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes out too breathy to have any weight. He takes several seconds to comply, his brain working slower now that Starsky is  _ on  _ him like this, but he slides his underwear down to his knees and kicks them off the rest of the way.  

If Starsky knows one thing, it’s the difference between Hutch pretending to be annoyed (but being turned on) and Hutch being actually annoyed. They’ve crossed the line from the latter to the former somewhere, and Hutch’s cock is hard enough to confirm that as Starsky gets a hand on him and gives him a couple strokes while he tugs open one of the condoms between his free hand and his teeth, a careful gesture only because he doesn’t want to have to go back and get another one, and this he gets onto Hutch before he gives him one last shove against the door, nudging his knees apart like he would a suspect for a patdown; two swift taps of his foot against either ankle and when he’s sure Hutch is balanced this way he drops down onto his own knees and gets his mouth on Hutch.

It takes Starsky a couple extra seconds to pry the bottle of lube back out of Hutch’s now-tightening fingers, but it’s worth it. Worth it to feel the way Hutch gasps and shifts while Starsky steadies his cock into his mouth with one hand, and works the bottle open to get his fingers slick with the other in his lap, careless of the greasy stain the lube’s about to leave on his own white suit pants. 

Hutch is reasonably sure that Starsky is still dressed on purpose, just to mess with his head, but he’s  _ definitely  _ sure that he kicks his legs apart and then drops to his knees just to mess with him. How does he manage to be on his knees in front of him with such an air of authority? It scrambles signals in Hutch's brain that aren't helped by Starsky trying to suck his brains out through his dick. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Hutch swears, grabbing the back of Starsky’s head, fingers sliding through curls, and braces himself on the door again, like the door and Starsky’s mouth are the only things holding him up. “You, ah—what's wrong with the bed?”

Starsky can’t answer with his mouth full, not that he’d have dignified that with an answer anyway, and instead traces two well-slicked fingers up the inside of Hutch’s thigh while he distracts him with his mouth. He knows how this goes, though maybe the position is different, the steps to the dance are all the same. He cups Hutch’s balls briefly, sliding off his cock almost all the way with a lewd noise of his tongue against latex. As he tongues over the head, peeking up only once to check on how Hutch is doing (as if he can’t feel the way his partner’s legs are trembling), Starsky eases against Hutch’s entrance and presses, two fingers and firm, though well slick. 

Of course,  _ nothing _ is wrong with the bed, but Starsky thinks maybe they should try a little variety now and again. He knows  _ his _ knees can take it. 

“ _ Ohh _ ,” Hutch groans, folding forward almost, and bracing his hands on Starsky’s shoulders. The slide of fingers inside him is not exactly expert, but it’s intimate, the fingers of a man who knows him better than he knows himself. He hikes one foot up, braces it against the door like he wants to push, or climb onto Starsky’s shoulders like this. “Oh, Jesus.”

Humming assent to or agreement with the blasphemy, Starsky works his fingers deeper, though he has to surrender his hold on the base of Hutch’s cock in order to press it flat against his belly and keep him balanced through his appreciative acrobatics. He’s only too glad to let Hutch lean on him, curl halfway around him like his whole center of existence was moving down to where Starsky’s touching him, curling his fingers in short thrusts as he gets Hutch nice and loose. As loose as possible, anyway, with his whole body curling inward and arching downward. 

He’s opening Hutch up for what comes next, teasing with his mouth enough to distract, but not enough to let him tip past the precipice. Enough that he can get three fingers in while Hutch claws at his back and gasps and  _ writhes _ in place, and Starsky counts every single throaty sound like a point in some imaginary scorebook, before he finally withdraws, grabbing Hutch by the hips and looking up (almost upside-down) at him until he opens his eyes to protest, and then Starsky spins him around and pins his front against the door instead, rattling it in the frame again. 

Hutch is sure the door isn’t meant to take this much weight, but he grips it tightly in dizzy anticipation, breath hitching. Starsky’s breath on the back of his neck makes him shiver, and he can’t see what his partner is doing and that makes him—not quite nervous—it  _ thrills  _ him. 

“You want I should read you your rights?” he asks, leaning over Hutch’s shoulder once he’s gotten to his feet again, leaning his shoulder into Hutch’s back while he undoes his own zipper, one of his suited thighs brushing the inside of Hutch’s while he gets himself ready; condom on, good and slick, his own voice husky and gritty with readiness.

Hutch chuckles, bracing both hands against the wall. This is an old joke between them, one that they haven’t tired of yet. With his legs spread like this, they’re almost the same height, and Hutch can actually feel his cock dripping from it. “Nah, just let me have it, officer.” 

“Boy, you’re awful eager,” Starsky murmurs. He doesn’t have to raise his voice for Hutch to hear, not if he puts his chin on Hutch’s shoulder, and loops one arm around his middle to steady him, his other hand guiding his cock as he pushes with his hips, finding entrance and taking it, easing in and feeling the way heat blooms over his shoulders, down into the small of his back. It feels  _ amazing _ , and Starsky fights his immediate greedy impulses in order to keep the first slide slow, careful. Not delicate, exactly, but enough that Hutch can stretch easy, keeping most of the sting out of it even as Hutch shifts and tries to find the best position. 

Hutch doesn’t consider himself a whimpering sort of man, not for anyone, not even for Starsky. But that thick cock sliding into him, slow but unstoppable, painful like a hard run or a hot sip of coffee that only makes you want more of it, wrenches a sound from him that pitches high and then breaks off as he bites his lip and coughs. He dare not move his feet, sure his knees will give out, but he braces himself on his elbows, now, like that will help him  _ take  _ it. “ _ Starsk _ ...”

Leaning back a little, Starsky shifts his own feet, enough that he’s stable enough for both of them, though it means he can only affix his mouth to the lower curve of Hutch’s shoulder and he starts pulling up a mark there with his teeth in skin and the heavy pressure of his mouth. He waits a minute, when he’s fully inside Hutch, holds his hips steady and waits for some of the pressure to ease off for both of them, because he doesn’t want to leave his partner sitting funny tomorrow, but once he starts he doesn’t intend to go easy, either. 

“Ah—ah, fuck, fuck,” Hutch says, voice cracking, but that is  _ not _ the same as a whimper. He reaches behind him do grab Starsky’s hip, letting the tiny bloom of almost-pain in his shoulder eclipse the other almost-pain until it rolls into pleasure like tidal waves. “Fuck, you’re good. That’s good, Starsk. Okay.” 

“Yeah?” Starsky asks, without moving his mouth very far from Hutch’s skin. He presses a kiss to the forming bruise and runs his palm from Hutch’s belly up over his shoulder to brace him and pull their bodies together, rolling his hips just a little into Hutch’s grip and reaching down with his other hand to curl around Hutch’s cock so that when he gives a thrust they’re both moving together and Hutch can slide through his grip. 

Hutch gasps and latches onto Starsky’s wrist, but he needs to brace himself on the wall so he puts his elbow back, fingers working like he’s going to dent the wood, but he takes a breath and forces himself to relax, to let Starsky just play him like his own instrument. He knows it’ll sound good.

When he feels Hutch relax, Starsky snaps his hips forward, because while he doesn’t often get to hear Hutch whimper as he comes apart, he loves the way his voice breaks and goes loud, like he forgets himself. 

He hasn’t even taken his pants all the way off, just hiked them down low enough for this with the fly undone. Starsky’s patience is spent, and they’re both in a rush now, so he sets a punishing rhythm, holding Hutch tight to keep them balanced, pushing hard enough that they both slip a little with each motion, that the door rattles it’s latch, that both of them are panting and gasping with it in no time at all. It’s not meant to last, not with the way he’s already going dizzy with it and he can feel the heat and sweat gathering in the small of his back when he pushes, or how Hutch seems to be practically pulsing in his grip. 

“Yeah,” Hutch answers in a low groan, digging his fingers into Starsky’s ass as though to spur him on, though he can’t imagine him fucking him harder. Starsky is a solid weight behind him, holding him gently but firmly, pressing him close enough to the door that it rattles with every movement. He can feel Starsky’s breath in his ear from the exertion, and knows his partner is close, too. Hutch can’t quite get enough air to shout but he whines and scratches at the wood as Starsky’s hand and his cock brings him to a shuddering orgasm, his vision going splotchy as his whole body tenses up for long seconds and then relaxes.  

Starsky only makes it a few seconds longer, shifting his grip down to hang onto Hutch’s hips as he pushes forward to bury himself as deep as possible before finding his own release with his fingers digging in over the points of Hutch’s hips and his teeth scraping the skin alongside Hutch’s spine while he goes still with it, while it pours like a shot measured through the air by one of those trick bartenders back and forth between both of them. Then Starsky blows out a breath like he’s forgotten to breathe the whole time and his grip eases some, and they both return to animation, statues coming back to life. 

“To answer your question,” Starsky rumbles, and his own voice is raw even though he’d held it so he could spend his time listening to  _ Hutch _ . “There’s nothing wrong with the bed. Except it’s over there. Can you make it?”

Hutch is still gulping in air like a drowning fish. “Yeah, sure. If you get this tripod out of my ass.” 

“I was thinking of setting up here,” Starsky answers, light-tone, but they both hiss as he obliges, and cleans them up, and with one hand around Hutch’s hip he swings open the closet door and disposes both the condoms in the little trash can he knows is in there, as if that’s been his plan all along.

Hutch is laughing, complimenting while teasing, as is their way, and sure, walking is going to be a chore, but he can make it to the  _ bed _ . He pushes off the wall, still clinging to Starsky, hoping their momentum will carry them all the way.

They make it most of the way without incident, but Starsky trips in discarded clothes and he pauses to shuck his pants the rest of the way off into that pile, rolling his eyes as Hutch gives him  _ the look _ . 

“We can clean up in the morning,” Starsky assures him. “I hope you know a good drycleaner.”

“Uuugh,” Hutch groans, burying his face against Starsky’s chest like he could hide in the curls of hair there. “I don’t know why I like you so much.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“You got pain on the brain.”_

Just another day, right? Another day that ends with a half a million police reports, weapons discharge forms, each typed in triplicate until Starsky feels like his eyes were going to cross. To top it off, Hutch seems especially antsy about it. He can feel the anxiety rolling off his usually serene partner in waves, so Starsky crowds them both out into the Torino. Their shift ended at five, but when you get into a shootout on a fairly public street it means you stay until everyone is satisfied. 

It’s dark out, Starsky’s car is at the back of the lot, and he pulls his door shut again in the dim, and waits for Hutch to get in. “You wanna get a beer?”

“No.” Hutch glowers, refusing to get into the car, and Starsky realizes he hasn’t been anxious so much as  _ pissy _ . “Damn it, Starsky, you almost got your dumb ass shot.  _ Again _ .”

Strike that, Starsky realizes as Hutch walks around the car and yanks open the driver’s side door to glare at him—his partner is  _ pissed _ . “There was  _ no  _ goddamned reason you had to run out like that. It didn’t help anyone, it just make you look like a hero, and you were inches from looking like a dead hero. I read your report, and  _ you  _ didn’t even think you had a good reason. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” Starsky is momentarily startled, confused as to the outburst. Then the perceived assault strikes up his own quick temper, a match held to the fraying ends of Starsky’s nerves. “What's wrong with  _ you  _ all of a sudden? I was keeping their attention away from your exposed position, Hutch. Anyway, nobody got shot except who should have been!”

They both know what the issue is, and why it matters so much all of a sudden, why it's rubbing them both the wrong way. Neither wants to say it, it's almost  _ too _ personal. “They were shooting at you, too, you big dope! Will you get in the car?”

Starsky’s anger rising to meet his is the last straw, and Hutch reaches into the car to grab his idiot partner by his stupid leather jacket and hauls him bodily out of the car, slamming him against the side of the car and leaning in close. 

“Did you think for a second about me?” he asks, baring his teeth. 

Starsky grunts, and for a moment, his expression is shocked and surprised. Of course he's seen Hutch like this, and always appreciated it about his partner, but it's never been turned on Starsky all the way before and it's enough to give him both pause and the beginnings of an erection. That's a complex tangle with Hutch pinning him against the paneling of his car, with the Torino’s character line digging in above his tailbone, and his emotions bare and vulnerable.

“Of course I thought about you,” Starsky growls, giving Hutch a shove back, as much to egg him on as to show he won't be pushed around. “Same way you thought about me, huh? You wanna quit this job, ride a desk somewhere instead?  _ This is what we do. _ ”

“Not like  _ morons  _ we don’t,” Hutch snarls, refusing to give an inch, stretching Starsky practically onto the roof as he leans into him. “You want to think about me? Think about protecting  _ me  _ less and looking after yourself more.” 

One hand still tangled in Starsky’s jacket, Hutch reaches down to fold the seat forward. “Get in.” 

Starsky considers the statements, but his brain is trying real hard to make logic through the fog of how beautiful Hutch’s eyes get when they're trying to bore a hole into Starsky’s skull, and how amazing it is to be manhandled into the back of his own car. 

Somewhere between being insulting and so hot he can't stand it. 

It takes a little doing, but he makes it into the back seat and now his fists are in Hutch’s shirt and he hopes idly that no one walks by ( _ If this striped tomato’s a rockin’... _ ) but doesn't care enough to protest.

“Hey,” Starsky barks, as the leather creaks and he hears a boot bang chrome and then Hutch is right on top of him, and there’s no hiding how hard both of them are by then, grappling in the back seat. “Close the door at least!”

Hutch growls in response, but there’s some utility in this, and he isn’t so lust-and-rage-clouded that he wants everyone to know Starsky is  _ his  _ (even though he does kind of want that, because he  _ is _ ), so he reaches back to tug the door shut, harder than it needs, and enough to make the window rattle. 

He’s straddling Starsky’s thighs, and his partner looks debauched already lying back against the leather seats, hard in his jeans and flushed, eyes still just a bit defiant. 

And  _ pretty _ .

It makes it hard to stay completely mad. Hutch ducks down to kiss him, harsh and savage, grabbing his throat to keep him pinned on his back, and doesn’t care how uncomfortably his legs are folded underneath them. “Don’t you dare do something like that again.”

“Yeah? You gonna make me?” Starsky asks, playing now, shifting and rocking his hips under Hutch’s though the position is tricky and one of his feet made it into the footwell but the other’s jammed against the back of the seat and he can’t get enough leverage. He knows how inflamatory the words are, anyway, or at least the way they put hooks into him, but Hutch hardly needs any egging on.

It’s just that he’s so  _ gorgeous _ when he’s mad, even with his hands on Starsky’s body in rough gestures barely shy of violence. Starsky doesn’t mind  _ at all _ , he trusts Hutch, they’ve been rough with each other before, and he likes the way getting rough takes the pressure off sometimes.  

“I am not remotely joking,” Hutch says, cold angry now, as he works Starsky’s belt open and out of his belt loops while he still has him pinned by the throat. “This isn’t funny, damn it, Starsk.” 

He’s still surprisingly, shockingly, angry, and when he interrogates it later he’ll decide that about 90% of his rage was fear and 10% his everyday fond annoyance with his partner’s quirks hitting a threshold into actual frustration. He claws at the small of Starsky’s back, probably leaving marks as he grabs the back of his pants to tug them down to his knees without unbuttoning them, and once he has Starsky’s feet tangled in denim and shoes, he hoists his legs up over one shoulder. “What if you had died, after pulling a stunt like that? What the fuck do you think that does to me?” 

Despite the admonition that Hutch wasn’t joking, Starsky’s grinning a little, just this shy of mania; the lopsided look he gets that’s showing his teeth but lost in his eyes and never quite means the same thing twice. “Same thing it does to me if I stand there and let someone shoot you, I think.”

He arches his back and lets Hutch move him how he likes, how he wants. He’d let Hutch bend him over backwards in half, if he wanted, and it probably wouldn’t make them any less angry or  in love with each other. He gets his hands hiked up in between them, yanking Hutch’s belt in return, nudging rough fingers under the strap of Hutch’s shoulder holster and yanking it because it’s tangled around Hutch enough for leverage. 

His partner doesn’t usually get angry, but Starsky fully believes he’d move heaven and earth with his wrath. And it’s gorgeous.

“ _ I _ was behind cover,” Hutch says, and before either of them really know what’s happening he has doubled up Starsky’s belt and smacked him across the ass with it, perhaps to keep himself from punching him in the jaw. It startles Starsky, at least, into shutting up, and Hutch smacks him a few times, mostly across one cheek and thigh where he can reach him. “You ran out there because you were impatient and didn’t want to wait for backup, and just because it worked out in your favor doesn’t make you any less of an  _ ass _ .” 

He punctuates this with another smack. 

Starsky hisses, but after the first strike startles him, he doesn’t make any effort to stop Hutch. He could, even with Hutch angry, he knows if he reached out and caught Hutch’s wrist, or just ordered him to stop, it would end. This is all sting; a doubled up belt in the confined space won’t do more than leave a bruise or two, Starsky’s pretty sure. Maybe he’s a  _ little _ curious about if he can talk his partner into trying this out proper, but he also has a pretty good sense that now’s not the time to start negotiating when this can happen again. 

“Alright,” Starsky admits, after a last, particularly emphatic  _ smack _ , and he pulls Hutch down to kiss him, almost as much teeth as softness, and if he’s arching his body and twisting to rub against the seats it’s as much to stimulate his cock as it is to arch his currently very tender backside away from the cool, sticking leather. “Next time, the fight’s all yours. Can you  _ please _ just—”

It seems strange in the instant before he says it that Starsky wants Hutch probably as badly as he ever has even given the current situation. Then again, this was some part of Hutch no one else ever got to have—Hutch certainly never treats the girls like this—it was  _ just _ for Starsky, and he wants all of it, greedily. He wants to know all the secret parts and dimensions of Hutch. Besides, it wasn’t like they’d never  _ talked _ about this.

“No. I’m  _ not  _ rewarding you for that stunt, you little shit,” Hutch growls, though it’s at least partially for the practical reason that he doesn’t have any lube and he’s not  _ that  _ mad at him. Without any further preamble, Hutch unzips and frees himself, and holds Starsky’s legs still as he fucks right between his thighs. “If you’re getting anything out of this, baby boy, it’s right here, and if you try to touch yourself you’re not going to like where I belt you next. Got it?” 

He points his index finger at Starsky warningly, the belt hanging from his fist.

Starsky visibly shivers, the shudder translating through both of their bodies, some combination of the promise in Hutch’s words and the powerful visual of the belt in his fist. No clearer indication of who it’s for could be asked for than Hutch’s pointing finger. Starsky actually has to close his eyes for a minute, swallowing something thick and syrupy and hot as he nods.

“Got it,” Starsky says, appropriately cowed as Hutch thrusts against him, and Starsky rolls his hips into it as best he can, occasionally managing to feel the drag of their cocks together, just a little, and the rest is just pressure and friction and maddeningly far from where Starsky wants it to be. Instead he gets one hand over the back bench and hangs on, fingers digging into the leather, watching Hutch every second. 

This isn’t  _ quite _ how he figured he’d talk Hutch into getting heavy in the car, but Starsky can live with it. 

Hutch is glad to see Starsky backing down. “See. You  _ can  _ behave.” 

It isn’t pretty but it is fast, and Hutch should be embarrassed but he’s not yet (still too angry, or relieved, maybe, glad Starsky is safe and here and not dead  _ the fucking moron _ ) as he comes harder than he has in a while, soaking Starsky’s thighs and cock and balls. Some gets on his shirt, even. 

Once he can breathe, his mood begins to soften more toward relief, like he can look at Starsky without seeing him running out in front of that robber’s bullet and getting scared and mad all over again. He pats Starsky’s legs where he’s still holding them against his chest, and bends down to kiss him. “Now. Don’t clean up. Pull your pants back up and drive us to my place. I’ll think about that beer in the car.”

Ten seconds later Hutch has zipped himself up and is out of the car, walking the line of cars to make sure his own is locked before returning. 

If Starsky’s eyes are still a little glassy and he takes a little longer to get his pants back on over his welted thigh, then maybe that’s to be expected. The belt lays in a curled up pile on the back seat, and Starsky gingerly lowers himself behind the wheel, sticky in places; spreading past his underwear and shirt to leave touches against his skin and jeans. Maybe it’s just because he’s geared to it, but he can smell it too, like Hutch and sweat and the warm leather of the car seat and sex all intermingled and Starsky rolls the driver’s side window down to let the cool air help clear his head as Hutch climbs in next to him. 

Starsky cocks his head at his partner, glancing at him under his lashes, trying his best to look a little more serious and a little less like he’d just been denied what could have been an incredible orgasm. He asks, simply, “Better?”

“Kinda depends on you,” Hutch says, his voice returned to its usual low but composed register. 

They drive in silence, Hutch pretending to ignore the way Starsky shifts in his seat, though even before they pull up to his place he’s already beginning to second-guess himself. Now that the danger and the heat of the moment are over, he’s not sure he didn’t go too far—and then lap himself coming around the other side of too far. If he was mad, he shouldn’t have made sex a part of it. God, they hadn’t even used any kind of protection.  _ Now who was the idiot?  _

“I’ll start dinner,” Hutch says once they’re inside and he can’t quite meet Starsky’s eye. “You want a shower, or—you don’t have to stay.” 

“Hey,” Starsky says, reaching out to get his hand into the front of Hutch’s shirt so he can pull their bodies together; maybe just a little out of spite since it leaves a smear on the front of Hutch’s shirt, too. “Hutch. I liked that. Maybe we could try that again sometime?”

Hutch’s mouth thins into a line, but he sighs and tries to let it go, or let it be something they’ll talk about after they eat. 

“You weren’t supposed to  _ like  _ it,” he huffs, rolling his eyes and trying not to grin. “Or does that make it worse?” 

“Not really.” Starsky gives him a kiss to reassure his partner that he both understood the  _ intended _ sentiment and had gotten the message loud and clear, and also to get them back on comfortable footing—or uncomfortable footing, given how Starsky’s thigh is feeling—again. “Shower sounds great, babe. I’m going to use all your hot water.”

Hutch returns the kiss, and tugs Starsky into an even tighter hug, forgetting or not caring about the mess. “You are...such a little shit.” 

But he says it with utter fondness this time, and laughs. At least he’s an  _ alive  _ little shit, who still loves him even when he gets psycho-possessive on him. 

“Uh huh,” Starsky agrees, heading into the shower after pausing to raid Hutch’s linen closet for a towel. He gives Hutch a suggestive eyebrow gesture that implies he knows exactly who he is and how infuriating that can be, before he cranks the hot water all the way up and heads into the shower. He yelps a little when it first touches his backside, but the pink marks there aren’t really all that serious. 

Hutch stares at his kitchen before deciding he can't adequately apologize with the contents in it, so he orders from Starsky’s favorite Chinese place and follows him into the bathroom. He plans just to change his clothes, but ends up joining Starsky under the spray. 

“I was  _ worried  _ about you,” he admits when he slides his arms around his partner. 

Starsky leans back, lose and easy into Hutch’s arms. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you the prognosis is good. Doctor, he’s gonna live!”

Reaching up, Starsky tips Hutch’s cheek toward him so he can kiss his partner. “I’m sorry I took a stupid risk today, Hutch. Sorry I drive you a little crazy. But uh, I also trust that if I’d asked you to stop back there in the car, you’d have done it. Am I wrong?”

“No, I mean, of course,” Hutch says. Talking to Starsky’s wet curls is easier than face to face. He worries his lip with his teeth before nibbling on Starsky’s shoulder instead, figuring they'll both like that more. “But I mean it. Don't drive me crazy like that. If you want me to put you over my knee you can just be your usual charming self and I'll get the hint. I don't want to be  _ angry  _ with you like that.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Starsky says, because he hadn’t. He turns around to face Hutch, surprised to see his partner looking something in the neighborhood of chagrined. “I’ll try not to do it again in the future. I know what it would mean for either one of us to lose the other, right? Maybe I won’t always be  _ careful _ , but I’ll think first.”

Taking one of Hutch’s hands, Starsky presses his palm over the slightly raised welts on his ass, the irritation already starting to go down. “But maybe someday we should see if you can get these to last a little, huh?”

Hutch flashes briefly through surprised and scandalized before he settles on a laugh. Starsky always knows how to make him laugh. He pulls Starsky against his chest and palms the globes of his ass, squeezing them roughly until his partner hisses and jerks in his arms. 

“Well,” he says, trying to appear stern though he’s having difficulty not grinning. “That kinda depends on you.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“What do we do now?”_
> 
> _“Surrender.”_
> 
> _“I knew you’d come through in a pinch.”_

“You know, I just think it’s funny, is all,” Hutch says, swinging his handcuffs idly from his finger. If they were on the clock, he wouldn’t remotely be handling his equipment like this, but since it was late at night and they were standing in the parking lot outside of Starsky’s car, he had no problem beginning to think of more creative applications of office supplies. “That after all that with Huggy, you somehow got your hands on another $360 watch.”

Hutch grins at Starsky so he’ll know he’s only playing at being suspicious, and leans against the driver’s side door so Starsky can’t go anywhere and has to listen. “I mean, we just don’t get paid that much, Starsk. So do I have a crooked partner who’s not cutting me in on something? Or you got a rich girlfriend you’re not telling me about, huh?”

Starsky has to move his hand so Hutch can lean in his window, but the watch is displayed prominently on his wrist. “Is this an interrogation, officer?”

“Depends on you,” Hutch levels.

Starsky plays too, nice and easy with a relaxed smile as his eyes trace Hutch’s handcuffs. He has one leg up casually on the driver’s seat in a way that doesn't suggest impatience. He doesn't want to be anywhere but here. “I have the right to have a nice watch, you know. Especially after you gave away my old one.”

Starsky traces his hand over Hutch’s forearm, the touch hidden by proximity and the bulk of the car. “You wanna take me downtown? Work on an assaulting an officer case?”

“Now who’s gonna get assaulted?” Hutch delivers innocently, and then his eyes go hard. “You threatening me, boy?”

Starsky catches on the moment Hutch’s eyes change, and his whole consciousness plunges down into his gut like he’s never seen anything but Hutch’s eyes. He can feel his cock swelling to the point where he has to shift in his seat. Okay; play it like this. He lets his own smile twist hard, and he reaches down to start the car.

“You can’t touch me, you got nothing on me,” Starsky tells him, cool and confident, tough talking to match the tone. “You want me? Come and get me.”

Hutch laughs, loose and easy. “Oh, I like this guy. Thinks he's cute.”

Then Hutch switches back, face going dark again, and he yanks the door open and hauls Starsky out of the car by his jacket, clipping his shoulder (on purpose) and his head (on accident) as he pulls him to his feet and slams him back against the car.

“I've got _everything_ on you,” Hutch growls, leaning in. Once he's sure Starsky’s head isn't actually injured, he's beginning to enjoy this, the way Starsky isn't resisting necessarily but he is _heavy_. “So are you gonna make this easy, or are you gonna make it interesting?”

Starsky’s eyes are practically dilated all the way already, focused only on Hutch as Hutch shoves him against the side of his car, and he makes Hutch take his weight because Hutch can. For a moment, they break character; Hutch checks his head, Starsky reaches out to touch his chest, reassuring him. They’re alright; in the moment, it’s okay. Both playing on the same page toward the same symphonic crescendo.

“Hey, I got rights,” Starsky grunts, shoving back now. “Why should I make it easy for you, huh?”

“Rights?” Hutch hisses, leaning his weight into him, pressing his shins into his knees so he can’t try to bolt, and snapping a cuff onto his left wrist. “You? Sneaking around behind your own partner, and you think you’ll be granted any rights?”

Starsky shoves against him again, and Starsky is strong, so he almost dislodges Hutch, who comes back with a sharp strike, slapping him with an open palm across his cheek.

It startles Starsky enough that he goes still, heat spreading from his cheek down his neck, into more of a flush than any chance of bruising; Starsky knows enough to know his partner won’t mark his face up, but it stung and made a noise.

Hutch hadn’t liked this idea when they talked about it before, but in the moment, it feels natural, like punching a perp, but more personal. It startles Starsky more than him, and Hutch can wheel him around and slam him facefirst onto the hood of the car so he can cuff his hands behind him. He leans in. “That okay? Color?”  

“Don’t dent my _car_ ,” Starsky hisses back, indignant, but he hears the other question too, and he goes relaxed as Hutch gets the cuffs on him. “Green, but so help me if you put a dent in my hood…”

Hutch hauls him up again, with the rigid impression of the car’s front fender still aching against the tops of Starsky’s thighs and maybe he feels a little for the perps they haul over the hood of their own vehicles but something about how professional Hutch is about it, practically mounting Starsky to hold him down is deeply exciting.

“Not gonna be _your_ car for long, son,” Hutch says, walking Starsky around to the passenger side and shoving him in. He cops a feel as he buckles the seatbelt, and presses him against the headrest with a searing kiss. “Maybe they’ll let me keep your car.”

“Now who’s crooked?” Starsky barks back, ducking out of the way as Hutch closes the door.

As if offended by this, Hutch slams the door harder than he needs to, just enough to put Starsky on edge, and stalks around to the driver’s side and gets in. “You’re gonna regret making me take you in like this.”

“Oh yeah?” Starsky shifts his hands trapped behind him against the seat, but he’s not completely helpless. He has to shift to ease his jeans over his crotch. “I think you like pushing me around. I think it gives you a sick sort of pleasure.”

A direct wink at Hutch pushes the boundaries of their messing around like this, but Starsky figures Hutch knows why he’s pushing back; that was part of what they’d agreed to when they’d talked about playing a little rougher, getting a little physical. This time, without being actually angry with each other, just playing at it. It’s even more exciting for Starsky to know that Hutch could get his eyes to go flinty and hard on command—not that he didn’t logically know that from years of good cop bad cop—and the way Hutch manhandles him around is about the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You like having me in your power, huh?” Starsky cajoles. “You’re thinking about it right now; what it would be like if you yanked my head down into your lap.”

“I’m thinking about how it would shut you up,” Hutch says, “but you’d probably like it too much.”

He drives them a few blocks to the warehouse district, and finds one that’s abandoned (they had checked it out the day before, when Hutch first began planning this little scene) before turning off the car and keeping the lights low. “I’m not taking you back to the precinct to question you there. Things might get a little too personal, for both of us.”

Moving slowly, Hutch turns on the radio for some background music, and then rests his hand on Starsky’s thigh, squeezing harder than is comfortable. “So you gonna confess to cheating with money or cheating with a girl? You know how jealous I can be.”

Bill Withers’ voice croons out of the speakers, begging to be used up in a lewd, suggestive tone that sets the mood. Starsky grins, pushes into the touch until he's slouching in the passenger seat, knees spread wide. “You'll never get a confession out of me, you're too soft.”

Hutch laughs, completely unhurried and unworried, and massages up Starsky’s thigh until he's palming at his dick through the denim. “Soft, huh? Nothing soft about any of this.”

Starsky’s eyes sweep over the area, they'd chosen one pretty quiet. Isolated, where no one was liable to call the cops. It'd be just Starsky’s luck if they got interrupted by uniforms in the middle of private congress, but also the possibility of getting caught adds a hair thin sliver of exciting danger.

“We're safe here,” Hutch assures him, as he turns in the seat and switches hands until Starsky is moaning for him. “No one to hear you scream, or beg, or confess. I can take my time with you, partner.”

“That what you want? A confession?” Starsky asks, rolling his hips into it, gripping the leather curve of the seat ineffectively, but it’s all his hands can reach.

“Oh, I’m getting what I want no matter what,” Hutch assures him. Now the hand moves up to circle Starsky’s throat, just a warning squeeze at first, and then one that cuts off air, just to test it, before tugging him into a biting kiss that Hutch has complete control over. “I hope you'll last.”

A low, wanting groan answers that, and Starsky lets his eyes close, tilts his head back in surrender. He knows that for all the other people they see, for everyone else they’ve let in, no one sees this part of Hutch but him. That part is the part that sends Starsky’s pulse racing, his hands gripping for any stimulation, leaves his body tense and hard and ready for it.

He cracks one eye open to look at Hutch, taking a deep breath while he has the opportunity and dares him, “Do your worst.”

Hutch smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He squeezes his hand around Starsky’s throat until when he lets go Starsky has to gulp in air, and gets out to walk around the car and haul him out again and throw him against the side of the car. “Gonna have to conduct a very thorough search, here. Spread em.”

Starsky has to lean into the car to comply, because his hands are tied up behind his back, and if Hutch kicks his ankles apart as he’s trying to find the balance to do it, spread against the hood of the car. So, maybe he gets a little closer look at the beautiful paint job than he normally does, leaning harder against the car and feeling pretty vulnerable this way, actually. Especially with Hutch’s hands running up the inside of his legs. “You know you already had your hands all over my weapon, partner.  I hope you don’t intend to really disarm me.”

He huffs a laugh against the hood, a little release of lust and tension, shifting until he’s sure his ass looks about as good as it’s going to in his jeans.

“A funny guy,” Hutch says, which is what he has to say instead of laughing because he's forever delighted by Starsky’s sense of humor. “You better not give me ideas when I've got your arms like this.”

He punctuates this by forcing the cuffed hands up between his shoulders until Starsky grunts in pain. He continues ‘searching’ him, by which he means groping him, while his partner pants and squirms against the car.

“Now I know sickos like you will hide your drugs and cash anywhere, so it's lucky for you I have a lot of lube…” Hutch says as he tugs Starsky’s jeans down over his perfect ass.

Starsky laughs nervously, shifting and panting against the car hood as Hutch divests him of his pants, aware of the way it must look, and if anything it makes him even more desperate. It’s _Hutch_ , so he trusts him, but at the same time Starsky’s guard has to be all the way down for this. “If you think you’re gonna find cash up there you’re gonna be looking for a while.”

He grunts when Hutch starts to pry him open; cold lube, and his fingers are a little colder than usual, so it takes a minute for Starsky to relax, and Hutch doesn’t let up, leaving Starsky pushing himself against the car’s fender for a different reason. He can’t get any good friction, just a slide and unyielding metal, when all he wants is Hutch’s hand back on his dick after all that earlier teasing.

“Bet you like this, huh?” Hutch asks huskily, finding that nub of pleasure inside him and bearing down on it, unrelenting. “Ooh, maybe I'm onto something here. Maybe I'm not the only one who's gotten you off like this. Just tell me who.”

If Starsky has an answer for him, it drowns in the gasp he makes as he shifts back into the motion, helping Hutch get right into the spot that’s making him see stars. He loses track of words, of what Hutch is saying, except for the coaxing and edging-mean tone of his voice, the warning there. It’s probably a question, but Starsky doesn’t remember how to answer those at the moment.

Hutch pulls his fingers out abruptly and smacks Starsky’s ass with the flat of his hand. But this stings more than he would like, so he rips Starsky’s belt out of the loops—it's the same one as last time—and he smacks him with it several times. “Maybe I'll kill anyone who touches you, or maybe I'll bruise your ass so everyone knows not to touch you.”

The first sting clarifies Starsky’s mind; snaps him right out of the haze of pleasure and he actually jerks forward. Now that Hutch has the proper room to work, to wind up into it, it stings up bright and makes enough noise that Starsky really hopes their homework paid off (somewhere in the part of his mind not completely taken over by his hindbrain). Then it goes low and dull, like the first part of a bruise as Starsky shifts back, feeling braced by the pain, by the attention. It’s just play, but there’s enough reality there that he wishes he could get his hands onto his own cock. He knows Hutch is holding back just enough, and it’s enough control for the both of them.

Hutch stands back, gripping Starsky by the hair to hold him as he lays into him as they discussed, stopping only when Starsky speaks:

“Nobody else,” Starsky promises, shifting against the hood of the car, not to get away but to keep himself as still as he can. “Nobody else like this, just you.”

Hutch stops, then, letting Starsky feel everything. “I don't know if I can believe you. No one else in all of Bay City wants a piece of this?”

“Wants, but can’t have,” Starsky answers, his voice rough as the sting fades and the real pain starts; the warmth of forming bruises under his pink-marked skin.

Hutch turns Starsky around abruptly, to check how he looks, and if dizzy and dull-eyed and hard as a rock is on the right track, he's doing this just right. He loops the belt around Starsky's throat, more as a means of control than to cut off his air, and surges in to kiss him. “This hurts me more than it hurts you, partner.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” Starsky laughs, breathless against Hutch’s mouth, arching against him to rub his dick against Hutch’s thigh as much as to keep his bruised rear end from pressing too hard against the car. The cuffs don’t let him do much but get ahold of the front fender and brace himself on it, looking across the distance at Hutch, hungry. “Not that I’m complaining, officer.”

Hutch actually smiles, biting his lip like he wants to bite Starsky. “You’re right, it’s not.”

He stares at Starsky until his partner begins to shift under the gaze. He’s sweaty and glassy-eyed and looks totally hungry for this, well passed debauched and into _slutty_. It makes Hutch's breath catch, what he can do for Starsky. What he'll let him do to him. His eyes going soft, he gets a hand in Starsky’s curls and just holds him, pulling only gently. “You in there, partner? We okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Starsky says, instantly, leaning forward, pushing against Hutch again because if there’s anything he’s into, it’s how tuned into each other they are, and how Hutch always makes sure they’re going the right direction. “We’re okay. That was good. Be better if you’d get your hands on my ass now, right?”

This isn’t just a one way street, though, and Starsky leans into Hutch, goes soft against his chest for a moment because he can’t hold on, and can’t do much else with his hands in cuffs and his pants around his ankles. “ _You_ okay, babe? Holding up?”

“Oh, yeah, babe. I’m...very fine.” Hutch smiles, relaxes any tension he was feeling, and gets his arms around Starsky, reaching down to grip his ass hard. “Mm, you want this? Maybe you’ll like it when I pound your ass with it still stinging, huh, sweetheart? You like making me think you’ve gone rogue, don’t you? Just begging for attention.”

“Can I help it if you’re so irresistible when you’re mad?” Starsky purrs, gasping against Hutch’s shoulder and moving, shifting and pushing into Hutch, enjoying the way it feels when Hutch touches him. There’s a perceptible temperature difference between his fingertips and Starsky’s abused backside. “Does it make you feel any better to know the watch is a phony?”

“ _You're_ a phony,” Hutch says, bordering on juvenile, and kisses him.

Leaning back, Starsky gives Hutch a wink, and then slides out from between him and the car, heading for the open door in an awkward shuffle, meaning to get into the back seat so that what comes next is a little easier.

“You know, I was gonna drag you back there, but I'm liking the look of the shuffle,” Hutch says, admiring his handiwork on Starsky’s ass.

“What do I need dignity for?” Starsky wonders, shifting to make things easy for Hutch, to help him along because they’re both impatient now.

His belt hangs loose around his neck, and Starsky looks so delicious he can't help but shove him into the back seat and follow after him. He isn't gentle with Starsky as he strips his shoes and pants, and opens up his shirt and jacket until they bunch around the handcuffs. He leaves the belt where it is.

As an afterthought, Hutch shuts the door behind them.

“Now you can feel free to be as loud as you want,” Hutch says, slicking up his fingers and working Starsky open roughly. “I might still take my time with you. Make you wish you'd’ve been honest with me from the beginning.”

A groan answers, loud, and Starsky bucks his hips up, shoving himself further onto Hutch’s fingers, already a little warmed up from Hutch’s earlier improvised cavity search. It was a good touch, Starsky would remember to tell him that. _Later._ He still can’t do much with his hands trapped under his body. “C’mon Hutch, you really think you’re gonna take this slow? You didn’t even read me my rights.”

Starsky’s voice is a low purr, half mumble, delivered from somewhere low in his chest as Hutch works him open, distracted but only because he’s watching Hutch intently, studying the little crease that forms between his eyebrows when he’s really focused on something. Starsky’s got a lot of favourite parts of Hutch, but that’s definitely one of them.

Hutch doesn't answer, and he doesn't let up. They lock eyes as Hutch works him with his fingers, assaulting his prostate, and curling one hand around his cock.

“You know your rights,” he says as he feels Starsky gasp and spasm like he's about to come, “But you don't get those. You get only what I give you.”

And right when he knows Starsky is on the edge, he fixes Starsky with a hard glare and stops touching him.

Starsky huffs out a disappointed breath, shifting and squirming, but he knows better than to try and demand anything in his current position. Hutch is in the sort of mood that Starsky loves, but it means he’s gonna wait for it, that he can relax and be at Hutch’s mercy because there’s very little he can do otherwise. He loves it when his boyfriend gets all in-charge like this, at least as much as he loves the moments when Hutch lets him take charge.

Hutch works him over slow, riding him up toward the edge and then backing off again, repeating until Starsky feels like hours have gone by and he can feel that he’s sweating, squirming against Hutch’s clever fingers, his cock leaking in slow pulses that warn Hutch just enough to stop until Starsky is panting, begging for it. “Have a little mercy, huh? I surrender.”

“Ah ah,” Hutch says, running just one finger up the underside of his cock, now gone dark red: any more and Starsky would go off. “You’ve already surrendered, see? I’ve already got you.”

Hutch smiles. He actually _could_ keep this up all night, he’s pretty sure, though his cock is as hard as Starsky’s. He really loves having Starsky like this, reduced to fine tremors and weak, aborted thrusts, his breath catching on every touch. On a hair trigger, just for him.

“And when I finally fuck you,” Hutch says, hands off Starsky when he surges up into the touch, leaving him collapsing in a frustrated heap, “you’re gonna come just from my cock in your ass, like a good boy, aren’t you?”

It was likely that Starsky wasn’t going to have much choice in the matter; any control he’d have over the situation was frayed out like a rope, picked apart by Hutch’s very clever hands and the intense look on his face. Starsky feels his whole body give an anticipatory surge at the very suggestion, and he’s pretty sure if this keeps up Hutch will be able to _talk_ him over the edge.

Taking pity on him finally, Hutch slings his legs up on either shoulder, digging his nails into the thighs he loves so much, marking him again, writing himself on every surface. He’s got his cock out and rubbered and inches from Starsky’s hole before he gets a better idea. “Now wait a minute…”

“ _You_ wait a minute!” Starsky protests, voice a harsh bark as he squirms toward Hutch, squeezing with his calves and flexed knees so Hutch can’t retreat.

“Well, I think we've got enough room in the car, and—easy, easy,” Hutch says, prying his legs apart—Starsky is so worn out it's a simple enough matter— “and I've got such a pretty boy here, why don't you give me a little show huh?”

Hutch hauls Starsky up into a kiss and then sits back, sliding into the seat next to him and strokes himself. “Why don't you ride me? I want to see you get yourself off on me.”

“You,” Starsky says, low and breathless and warning, as he gets up onto his knees over Hutch’s thighs, which takes some doing since he has no real use of his hands except…he can angle his hips, and brace himself on the seat with his hands behind his back to get into position. “Are going to pay for this, you know.”

It’s not much of a threat as Starsky tries to find the best position to put himself onto Hutch who seems to be _thoroughly unhelpful._ His voice is pleading, edging whining now as he tries to lower himself on Hutch’s uncooperative dick. “Why don’t you help me out, huh? I’m starting to think _you’re_ the one that’s the crooked cop.”

“I dunno about crooked,” Hutch says, taking pity on Starsky and holding his dick in place to help Starsky lower himself onto it. He can see his legs already shaking with the effort, and it makes him so hard he has to squeeze down on  the base of his cock to keep from coming immediately. “But, ah, definitely not straight, anyway.”

He grabs Starsky’s ass with the other hand and guides him down, letting him take his own weight once he's firmly seated, and watching sensations play across his beautiful face. “That's it, see, you like this, don't you? You get to take things at your own pace now.”

Starsky murmurs a wordless agreement, rolling his hips experimentally and then bracing himself against the seat harder with his hands and grinding down on Hutch’s cock even though every motion is magnified by the bruise and ache in his ass. He is in no way interested in having any pity on Hutch, and it’s not going to take long like this. The way Starsky figures it, as he doesn’t thrust so much as grind himself toward completion with deliberate hurry, they’ve already taken their time.

Managing to last more than a few seconds is accomplishment enough, and it’s hard to get the right angle this way but it doesn’t matter, even just a little teasing and friction is enough and when he finally does cum, it’s like the lid lifting off the world, and Starsky actually _shouts_ , his hands squeaking over the seats, and his body tightening up, going through the waves and pulses of it. Starsky shoves himself up, then, so he can lean heavy against Hutch, and pin him against the door behind him while he catches his breath, shifting still from side to side over Hutch’s thighs because there’s enough sting left on his thighs and ass that he even feels it in the afterglow.

Hutch forgot to put a condom on Starsky in their rush, so he comes rather explosively over both of them, completely untouched, and that makes Hutch grind to his own orgasm with a low groan.

“Good, good, that’s it, good boy,” he says, pulling Starsky into a close embrace, rubbing the back of his neck and kissing his hair as they both come down. “Beautiful. You’re beautiful for me, so good. I got you, love.”

Nuzzling in against Hutch’s neck, Starsky breathes out slow, feeling his heart rate starting to slow down again, about as relaxed as he can get.

Starsky is shifting only minutely on his lap, and Hutch likes him calm and exhausted like this (almost as much as he likes him needy and desperate). “That was good. You’re gorgeous, Starsk. Just—you can relax now. You did good. I’ve got you.”

“You did good too, you know,” Starsky reassures him, muttering against Hutch’s skin. “That was amazing. Gonna feel it for a week.”

He means that in a good way, as he can feel the bruises sinking deeper. No real damage was done, he’s positive of that, but there’ll be some marks, and he likes that idea. That someplace, out of sight, Hutch’s signature is on his skin.

“Hey, I hope you have the keys for these cuffs handy,” Starsky says after a minute. “We’d better get that mess off the leather before it bleaches spots.”

“You know, you’re kinda fussy for such a slob,” Hutch chuckles, patting Starsky’s thigh and reaching up into the glove box in the front seat for some fast food napkins to clean up with.

“Oh _I’m_ a slob,” Starsky laughs, seeming not to quite be satisfied with the results of the napkin on the seat, but he doesn’t complain any further. “I’ve seen the back seat of _your_ car, you know.”

He leans Starsky back against the seat and cleans him up, and disposes of these and the condom inside another napkin to throw away later. He grins at Starsky as he tugs his shirt and jacket back up over his shoulders. “You know, I wish I didn’t have the keys. Watch you Houdini out of them, maybe. Or just make you let me take care of you all night.”

“There are certain things that will have to happen that I don’t think I want your help with,” Starsky reminds, with a shrug and a grin, and then his smile fades into a hiss as Hutch helps him get his jeans back up over his hips. “Wow, that’s sore. I’ll make you a deal. You take these handcuffs off, and you can take care of me the whole night anyway.”

Hutch, because he thinks he’s hilarious, makes a show of “Now where did I put those dang keys?” for several minutes before he unearths them from the first pocket he actually checked in. With practiced skill, he reaches around behind Starsky to unlock one wrist without looking, and then draws both hands in front so he can check out his wrists. He’s never cared before about whether a perp has red marks on their skin from them, but he’s concerned now. What he finds is very surface-level and fades quickly, and he lets Starsky have a moment to adjust himself before they both crawl out of the back seat. Hutch finds a bin to throw the wad of napkins into.

“You gonna let me drive?” Hutch asks, catching Starsky wincing. He grins, teasing to cover up his concern: “You could lie down in the back.”

Starsky drops himself into the driver’s seat pointedly and ignores Hutch rolling his eyes. “Your place or mine?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"You know what your problem is, boy? Looking rich makes you nervous."_
> 
> _"It's these kinky clothes that make me nervous."_

“So run that by me again,” Starsky says, after they’ve had another beer to digest the first go-through with. “You want me to break into your house like a burglar so you can catch me?”

It’s not their usual sort of scene, but Starsky’s definitely intrigued by the thought, as he lounges on Hutch’s couch, with Hutch as well, drinking one of Hutch’s terrible light beers because they’d run out of the regular stuff and both were too lazy to go to the store, which was why they were talking about sex rather than having it, probably.

“I mean, only if you think you can  _ take _ me.” Hutch shrugs, giving Starsky a wry and almost flirtatious grin. He has his feet up on Starsky’s lap, and they're lounging on his sofa with the TV on low, mostly as an excuse. “It's an exercise in being ready for anything. Maybe I'll invest in some alarms, or booby traps.”

“So, I break into your house like a tough guy, wrestle you off your feet, tie you up,” Starsky drawls, rubbing Hutch’s ankles soothingly, the gesture absent but a little greedy. “Then have my way with you? Or the other way around? You punishing a burglar?”

Tickling his fingers up Hutch’s calf, Starsky grins at him. “One of us teaches the other a lesson we won't forget? I'd tie your hands up to one of those eye hooks you have for your plants…”

“For the record, I  _ don’t  _ think those’ll hold that much weight,” Hutch warns, his smile bright and easy. Starsky’s eyes are half-lidded and relaxed, and one of his hands is colder than the other from holding his beer. “But yeah, that’s the idea. Whoever wins. We’ll have to put money on it so you won’t flop. I know you like being punished.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Starsky says. “I could warm up to the idea of cops and robbers, all grown up. You'd yell freeze, tell me to put my hands up…”

Starsky chuckles, a low sound that suggests he likes whatever lecherous thoughts he's thinking. “I'd say, officer is that your gun? It's so big…”

Hutch rolls his eyes.  

“Is fifty enough to make it serious? Really it’s a test of our  _ skills _ , I don’t know what you want to make it all kinky for.” Hutch’s face is a picture of pretending to be serious while trying not to laugh as he casts about for his wallet. “We’ll put the money in this vase, put it by the bed. If you steal it, the $100 is yours. If I stop you, I keep it. How’s that?” 

“What makes you think I’m not serious already?” Starsky asks, but he doesn’t protest, watching the money waving around in Hutch’s hand. He fishes his own wallet out, but only manages to dig out a twenty, which he displays with a shrug. “You know I’m good for it, right?”

“Yeah, but the game can’t start til you put all of it in the pot,” Hutch says. He’s always been a stickler for rules.

Passing the money to Hutch, Starsky reaches for his beer again. “So what else did you want me to do to make it worth your money and mine? Should I resist arrest? ‘Officer, I’ll do anything if you’ll let me off with a warning?’”

Hutch actually laughs this time, though he isn’t sure Starsky isn’t making fun of him. “Of course! Look, if you don’t like the idea…” 

“I’m not saying that,” Starsky says, displaying his empty wallet to show he can’t put anything else in before he tucks it into his back pocket. “I’m trying to get into the spirit of things, to make sure what happens is what you want to happen, right? Communicating.”

Making a demonstrative sort of back-and-forth gesture with his hands, Starsky indicates a dialogue between them. “So I mean, if all you  _ want  _ me to do is just break in and take your money, I could do that.”

Hutch considers this. “Well. I guess it’s my job to make sure I catch you. Right? Maybe we don’t put it in the vase. You have to try to get it out of me.” 

Hutch pauses. “I mean the  _ information  _ out of me. I’m not gonna—” 

He laughs, blushing. 

Starsky pushes him down, draping himself over Hutch’s chest. “What if your money’s not all I want, detective? I could be a real degenerate.”

He trails his hand down Hutch’s belly suggestively. “ _ You _ could be a real degenerate, come to think of it. Like a setup to one of those adult films, only instead of being the plumber, I’m here to uh,  _ burglarize. _ ”

Even he can’t take trying to make that word sexy very seriously, and Starsky dissolves in chuckles against Hutch’s chest.

Hutch is already cackling, pulling Starsky into a kiss, and tilting him to the side so he starts sinking into the cushions. 

“ _ Could _ you be a real degenerate, though? I just don’t know if you’re a good enough  _ actor  _ for that,” Hutch says, his tone clearly, deeply sarcastic. 

“Hey, I’m just as good as you are,” Starsky protests, slinging one of his legs over Hutch’s hip. “Just you wait, I’ll show you.”

After a moment, he produces Hutch’s wallet, by way of demonstration, even if it’s just to set it aside on the table. “I’ll break in here, like a cat. Middle of the night. You won’t know what hit you. Well, okay, you will, because we’re talking about it right now. House rules?”

“House rules,” Hutch agrees, and smiles again, all teeth. He can’t help but smile and laugh all the time around his goofy partner, even when they’re working, but especially when they’re alone and they don’t have to posture for anyone and they each have all of the other’s focus and attention, when all Starsky seems to want to do is make Hutch laugh. 

“Like a cat,” he hums, rubbing a hand up and down Starsky’s arm. “Well, you’re fuzzy enough.” 

He leans in to whisper hot in his ear in a way that makes his partner tremble, “And if I catch you, I’m gonna make you yowl.”

...

They don't find time until the next weekend, and Starsky remembers almost at the last minute, and puts on his best black outfit, hoping none of Hutch’s neighbors are too alert tonight. He knows his way around jimmying a window open, though he's never had to be too quiet at it before.

He hoists himself through once it's open, and he has the advantage of knowing his way around Hutch’s place, and where he keeps his valuables.

So far, so good. No alarms.

But Hutch has laid out marbles on the floor in front of his windows and doors (he picks them up every morning, dutifully, after that first morning where he nearly broke his own damn neck forgetting they were there). Even if Starsky doesn’t use those cat-like reflexes to stay on his feet, Hutch will hear them rolling around the floor. 

Managing to catch himself as his feet threaten to go out from under him, Starsky sends several marbles rolling away across the floor, but at least he doesn’t break his own  _ neck _ . He grabs onto one of Hutch’s overabundant book cases and catches one of the marbles before it rolls over the dropoff onto the hardwood floor. Steadying himself, Starsky considers this obstacle, before he moves again, very, very carefully. 

He’ll have to get out again without killing himself, so he improvises. Reaches into Hutch’s linen closet and throws a towel over the marbles to keep them from rolling around too far and muffle any sound as he gathers them up. He  _ considers _ relocating them into the bathroom on the tile floor around the toilet, but he’s not that mean, even if Hutch is. 

Hutch is still sleeping,  _ or still pretending to sleep _ , as Starsky makes his way through the dark house to his unlocked and wide open bedroom door. It’s just suspicious enough, but the thick shag carpet is dark enough to hide the snare trap—just like in the Boy Scouts, but scaled up—and sure enough, the plant hook that normally holds Hutch’s pelargonium does hold Starsky’s weight, though when his foot goes out from under him and  _ up _ , his hands can still brush the floor. 

If he didn’t hear Starsky’s cry, it pings a bell that has Hutch awake and on his feet, and he roars with laughter seeing Starsky so strung up with his foot above his head. 

“Oh, man! I can’t believe you fell for that, Starsk—” Then he coughs, forgetting to be in character. “Ah, I mean. Who the hell do you think you are, breaking and entering?” 

_ “Hutch _ ,” Starsky yelps, surprised, before he remembers that they’re playing a game. It’s a game he didn’t think would involve getting yanked off his feet like a trophy buck, but, well, this was all still fair. He struggles a little, and then dangles, waiting. “What kind of den of sin have I stumbled into? These booby traps for me, or your boyfriend?”

“Maybe both,” Hutch says. His gun is under his bed, but so is a rolled up yoga mat that he plans to acquaint this burglar with.

Starsky waits until Hutch gets into range and then gives himself a heave, grappling him around the middle and managing to get enough lift to get his foot out of the snare, but only by leaving his shoe and sock behind as he drops Hutch to the ground. 

“Hey!” Hutch cries, surprised by the attack. He pulls out a wrestling move before Starsky can do anything sneaky, and flips them so he's on top, though they're just rolling around in the dark, now, and quickly Starsky shakes his hold.

“Ow! Hey, wait, time out! I just put my elbow on a marble, ow!” Hutch cries out, knowing this will only work the once.

“You put the marbles there,” Starsky says, grappling Hutch with no less intent to subdue even while he yells about marbles. “It’s your own fault. No time outs!”

Hutch slips away from him, anyway, but after a brief wrestling match that turns into maybe a little bit more rubbing on each other than actually struggling, Starsky manages to get the upper hand, which he takes advantage of by getting one of Hutch’s hands through the loop suspended from the ceiling, and then with a little quick thinking and finding where the other end is tied—using a few skills he’d learned from their shibari session—he manages to tie Hutch’s other hand with the loop in the middle.

“You set a  _ tiger trap _ ?” Starsky asks, indignant, as he catches his breath. 

“I thought you liked it when I call you Tiger,” Hutch retorts, trying to squirm free of the knots. He could leap and kick Starsky, or attack him with his legs, but he isn’t entirely sure the hook will take their  _ combined  _ weight. He grunts and pulls, and tries to get his fingers on a knot, but Starsky had apparently taken the shibari book home to practice or something, because, damn. “Though it’s really more of a rabbit trap.” 

Hutch’s eyes go a little glassy before he remembers he’s not supposed to know Starsky in this scenario. “Uh, shit, I mean—” 

He dissolves into laughter, bending this way and that as he tries to free himself. “L-listen, buddy, you could get in a lot of trouble with this stunt. Like, I’ll hit you so hard you’ll be eating through a straw kind of trouble.” 

If anybody’s got infectious laughter, it’s Hutch, and Starsky only barely manages to avoid laughing along, instead, stepping back out of range and looking Hutch over, top to bottom. “A tough guy, huh? You don’t look so tough to me. Tell me where your valuables are and I won’t leave you strung up all night when I leave.”

With the way Starsky’s eyes flash as he delivers that promise, he might even mean it. The sight of Hutch squirming and at his mercy, riding his shirt up slowly as he tries to work out how to get either the hand above his head or the hand affixed to the small of his back free is really alluring. 

“Ha! Like I'd tell you anything,” Hutch spits, though he can't stop grinning at how serious this is  _ not _ . It wasn't so hard to stay in character with the handcuffs in Starsky’s car. He could play  _ that _ role pretty well. He tries, “When my partner gets here you'll really be sorry.”

And he punctuates it by hooking his foot behind Starsky’s ankle and tripping him.

Starsky catches himself back out of range, but he goes halfway down before he does, trying not to laugh, even as he gives his tailbone a solid whack against the decor. Starsky considers tying Hutch’s  _ feet _ too, as he stays out of range, but eventually decides it won’t be worth it. Rubbing his butt takes some of the threat out of his words, but he persists anyway. “I took care of your partner already. We made an agreement. Seems you two had a little disagreement over a watch…”

Hutch can't help but burst out laughing again, quite ruining the threat. “You won't let that watch go!”

Starsky grabs the next kick headed his direction, and glances up only once to make sure the I-beam stud the hook is screwed into is holding up okay. Turns out Hutch doesn’t mess around when installing hooks for his plants. Starsky leans in, presses their bodies together at the hip with one of his hands under Hutch’s knee to keep his foot off the ground and his balance tricky. “He said I could do whatever I wanted with you, if you got uppity.”

“Ahh—ah, ah!” Hutch says, halfway between scolding and laughing still as he hops on one foot to keep his balance. The threat is enough to curl a tendril of lust low in his belly, as is Starsky’s hold on him, briefly enough of a stretch to be scary (he knows that if Starsky was doing more than  _ playing _ a bad guy, he would be in trouble because Starsky knew how to dislocate a knee like this, and it emphasizes that Hutch's move was pretty stupid). 

But when they lock eyes, Starsky has a wild and playful glint in his, and Hutch squirms, suddenly alarmed. “If you tickle me, I swear to God, Starsk.”

“Would I do that? Hmm,” Starsky says, leaning in a little closer, working his hand up Hutch’s thigh and then over his ass to squeeze it as he works his own knee in between Hutch’s own for just a little friction. “That would be evil.  _ Almost _ as evil as laying out marbles when you’re playing cops and robbers.”

While Hutch is distracted with Starsky’s hand on his ass, his other weasels in to the exposed armpit and tickles until Hutch is thrashing and twisting against Starsky. “You swear what? What do you swear? Tell me where the money is.”

They’re  _ both _ laughing now, messing around more than anything else, the game forgotten as they play an entirely new one. 

“No! Noooo!” Hutch cries, and he rests all his weight on the ropes to get his legs around Starsky’s middle to haul him around, laughing and thrashing, and he’s impressed at the strength of the hook, really, or else he’s about to be in a world of hurt when it crashes down. “Starsky! Damn it! No!” 

He clocks Starsky in the face with his elbow, mostly on accident, but he really does hate being tickled. “Ah. Shit! I’m sorry! I told you not to do that!” 

“I didn’t hear any colors,” Starsky reminds, rubbing his nose a little to soothe out the sting, one hand under Hutch’s ass to help support his weight, since he doesn’t seem to want to let go with his legs. He kisses Hutch on the nose, and grins at him to show there’s no harm done.

“I’m not going to call ‘red’ on you tickling me! At worst that’s a yellow. It’s just undignified,” Hutch complains. “Who likes being tickled?” 

But Starsky is just staring at him, and Hutch realizes he’s out of character again.

“Anyway, cough up the dough or you’re in for worse,” Starsky reminds. “I think we can agree I have you at my mercy.”

“Look, I am not telling you anything, no matter what you do to me,” Hutch says, getting into it now that Starsky isn’t  _ cheating _ . “I’ve been in worse jams than this, you don’t scare me.” 

“No, huh?” Starsky says.  _ His _ hands are still free, and he can get his hands between them and onto the elastic waistband of Hutch’s sleep pants, pulling them down over his ass. “I mean, I can think of a few places to look that you wouldn’t like…”

“Mm, you come onto your girlfriends with that line?” Hutch replies easily, like he’s almost already turned on, or at least intrigued. He turns it back on the ‘burglar’: “Or...you know, boyfriends? It’s not my first time, either, sweetheart.” 

“You know, it’s not much of a threat if you’re into it,” Starsky chuckles, teasing his fingers just behind Hutch’s tailbone, nowhere truly threatening yet. “I knew I should have brought my whole burglar’s kit with me.”

With a wink, Starsky gives Hutch a firm slap on the ass that loosens his legs enough for Starsky to step back away from him, taking Hutch’s pants with him. These he discards carelessly on the floor before he starts rifling Hutch’s drawers—the wooden ones—making a show of messing up his underwear, even though he knows exactly where to go for what he’s looking for maybe if he makes enough of a mess, Hutch will tell him where to find the cash, too.

“H-hey!” Hutch cries out—and now Starsky knows just how to get him. “Stop—Starsk—you better put that back!” 

Hutch is just about free of the knots when Starsky’s hand hovers over the puzzle he’s been putting together for the past few weeks, and Hutch’s eyes go wide and he stops moving. “You  _ wouldn’t _ !” 

“How else can I know you haven’t hidden the cash under here?” Starsky says, pushing just one piece around, threateningly.  _ Now _ he has Hutch’s attention. Of course he’d had to lead up to it by throwing all of Hutch’s underwear on the floor, but this is the chess gambit Starsky’s betting on. “Unless you wanted to tell me where it was? I tell you what’s next is making sure it’s not in the bottom of any of your potted plants…”

This, Starsky  _ wouldn’t _ do, but it’s about the only threat he can really think of that might be worse than the puzzle. 

“Okay! Okay!” Hutch says, caving immediately. He supposes Starsky wouldn’t,  _ really _ , just like if this were a real threat the puzzle and plants didn’t,  _ really _ , matter in the scheme of things. “I’ll tell you.” 

Starsky puts the piece down and approaches him, hands out, waiting. 

Hutch answers with a bashful grin and a glance down. “Guess you’ll have to search me, after all.” 

“Really?” Starsky asks, clearly impressed with his dedication, before he slides his hand into Hutch’s underwear, and while it would keep up the scene they’ve created if he was all business and searching for the cash he cups his hand against Hutch’s cock instead, palming it the rest of the way hard with long strokes. “You know, I plan on spending that money. Brings a new meaning to the phrase ‘dirty money’, huh?”

“Mm, ahh—yeah,” Hutch grunts, and lets Starsky get his hands everywhere, and lets himself enjoy it, before he says, “especially because it’s in my sock.” 

He’s grinning open-mouthed at Starsky as his partner pulls back to check if he’s serious. 

“Your sock,” Starsky says, without pausing his handjob. “Hutch, do you know who else keeps their money in their sock? My grandma.”

“Hey,” Hutch grunts, rocking himself into Starsky’s fist, “that’s a red, you know the rules. No talk about family members in the bedroom!” 

Still, Starsky bends down to get it, recovering the wadded up bills from Hutch’s sock while rolling his eyes. He tucks it into his own back pocket, and then considers his options while Hutch is suspended. “If I was a cruel man, I’d just go back out the window I came in.”

“Don’t you dare, Starsky,” Hutch says, as sternly as he can, considering he’s hanging from a plant hook in the ceiling and wearing only one sock. “Aren’t you gonna enjoy the spoils of your victory—you  _ cheater _ ?” 

“Oh,  _ I’m _ a cheater,” Starsky says, tugging Hutch’s underwear down around his ankles without getting up from his crouch on the floor. “I’m sure you have marbles under your windows and rabbit traps in your bedroom every day.”

Hutch sucks in a breath, watching Starsky on his knees in front of him. “Th-that’s perfectly within the parameters of—of the…the exercise...” 

He fishes a condom he’d picked up earlier while he was rifling Hutch’s drawers out of his pocket, and looks Hutch dead in the eye from his lower position while he opens it delicately with his teeth. “Besides, you broke character first.”

“Well, you make me laugh. It’s not my fault you’re—”

Starsky proves himself not above further cheating by rolling the condom onto Hutch’s cock with his mouth, just to make him swear.

“—oh fuck,” Hutch concludes, his cock going from half-interested to totally-interested in an instant, and he really hopes Starsky is done playing games. He squirms again. “Look, you gonna leave me like this all night?” 

Starsky doesn’t answer, his mouth is busy working over the head of Hutch’s cock with all the attention he’d denied it with his earlier handjob, hot and wet enough to make for a slick slide and easy as he probes every dimension of Hutch with his tongue, absolutely enjoying the way he squirms and shifts, trying to keep his balance with his arms tied up in that awkward position while Starsky does his best to make him forget.

Hutch swears colorfully, throwing his head back to avoid looking at his gorgeous partner’s gorgeous lips closed around his dick. 

He draws off with an obscene noise after a couple of very long minutes, but he doesn’t sit back, instead looking up at Hutch. “How’re your hands, partner? You want me to keep going?”

“God, Starsk, yes, they’re fine, no, do not  _ stop _ ,” Hutch groans, frustrated and a little turned on by this setup, which only frustrates him more, and he makes an effort to speak through the haze of lust, “Say, ah. If I made a joke about a $50 blowjob...that wouldn’t upset you, would it?” 

“Not at all, you’re the one all hung up,” Starsky chuckles, pressing a kiss to Hutch’s belly before he goes back to work on his dick. He feels totally in power this way, with Hutch wearing nothing but a t-shirt and one sock, and Starsky still fully dressed. He can’t use his hands to guide, has to spend most of his energy keeping his balance, but he makes these  _ sounds _ when Starsky takes him deep, or does something clever with his tongue, that makes Starsky feel like he could sit here all day on his knees, teasing and taking his time with things. 

It’s definitely worth taking his time with Hutch, anyway.

Even if his hands were about to fall off, Hutch isn't sure he could let Starsky stop, and he climbs toward that horizon in gasps and soft moans that only seem to egg his partner on. It's so good and so exhilarating, actually, that Hutch can't quite figure out how this is him  _ losing _ . “Ahh, Starsky.”

Starsky feels the way his body winds up, can feel how tight the muscles in Hutch’s thighs are getting, and he gets the suspicion that the only reason Hutch has held out this long is the distraction of being tied. He files that information away for later as he redoubles his efforts to push Hutch toward the edge, working the flat of his tongue over the head of Hutch’s cock, then just along the underside right beneath, taking satisfaction when the pitch of his gasps changes.

“Yeah! Fuck, right—hmm, there,” Hutch grunts, throwing a leg up over Starsky’s shoulder because oh dear God he wants to fold all of himself into Starsky’s hot mouth. He doesn't have time to warn him even before he comes like it was punched out of him, and he shouts and folds over him, shoulders protesting. What made an orgasm better from being tied to a hook on the ceiling? he wondered distantly. “Starsky, Starsk. Oh my God.”

Starsky finishes him off with a fond lick, then clears the taste of latex from his mouth with a few swallows as he sits back, watches Hutch practically hang from the ropes before he reaches back and gives one clever tug - then a second when the first doesn’t do it, and the rope slithers free, before he catches Hutch as his knees give out and eases him down to the shag carpet, cradling their bodies together.

“Was it worth the money?” Starsky asks, with a lopsided grin, enjoying every instant of Hutch’s dazed expression. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Hutch says, blinking slowly and holding onto Starsky while he gets his breath back, and just flops in his arms and giggles. “Hey, anything else you wanna take advantage of, while we’re down here?” 

“Ha!” Starsky laughs. “No, I got what I came for. Come on you big lug, let’s get you into bed.”

Hoisting his partner heavily to his feet, Starsky manages to get him tucked into bed, and then himself at least undressed enough to sleep before Hutch drags him down in a tangle of clinging limbs and lanky, floppy refusal to let Starsky go. “Alright, alright, I’m staying, relax.”

“You know we're gonna have to put that hook to good use again.” Hutch's hands open and close around Starsky's arm and his ass where they land, squeezing gently. 

“I'm glad you're one of the good guys.” But this is unexpectedly serious, and Hutch tries again. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Who said I’m a good guy?” Starsky asks, pulling Hutch closer and kissing his neck, getting comfortable. “I expect waffles for breakfast. From that place up the street. With extra syrup!”

“You won’t let me  _ make  _ you waff—oh, fine,” Hutch says, humming into the kiss. “You’re an expensive boyfriend. But worth it.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"These shoes you bought me. They're killing my instep!"_

“Hutch, next time you go shoe shopping for me make sure you buy shoes sized for human feet,” Starsky complains, hurling the pair of heeled snakeskin shoes into the far corners of his apartment, likely never to be seen again. He drops himself on the sloshing waterbed and leans back, massaging his own foot and carefully inspecting it for blisters. He finds one that’s rubbed all the way open and sticks to his sock when he pulls it off, manfully silent as he waits to look at the damage. “I’m pretty sure those are actually horse shoes. You know, for the miniature kind.”

“Pony shoes?” Hutch supplies, and laughs, toeing his own shoes off and undressing from their elaborate undercover gear. “I don’t like the hat, but you don’t see me complaining.” 

“Your pants make up for it,” Starsky assures him, giving Hutch the old once-over before he winces, and turns back to uncover the other foot, with a rub in the same spot. “What kinda idiot do you take me for? You love that hat.” 

Hutch does actually love this hat, but Starsky’s feet do look pretty wrecked, and Hutch winces visibly. “Okay, hang on, where do you keep your first aid kit.” 

He asks as a matter of course, though he knows it’s in the bathroom under the sink, and is already halfway there. 

“Just bring a little soap and water,” Starsky says. “I was doing okay until I had to run in those meat grinders, I’m sure this’ll go away in no time if I go back to sneakers.”

“Starsky, the problem is that no kingpin would ever be caught dead wearing blue Adidas!” Hutch calls from the other room, returning with a tub of warm water and the first aid kit. “How are your feet so tender? You look at a dress shoe and they start bleeding prematurely.”

“My feet aren’t tender on the parts that are supposed to touch a shoe,” Starsky grouses, throwing his socks into the dirty laundry corner. “Besides, kingpins have to run sometimes, too, right?”

Hutch kneels in front of Starsky and rolls up his pant legs so he can soak his feet. He bats Starsky’s hand away when he tries to help. “Okay, easy, I've got you.”

His first instinct is to pull his feet away but the warm water feels perfect, and Starsky relaxes visibly as they soothe his aching and sore—yes,  _ both _ aching and sore, and they were different—feet. “I don’t know how you do it in those cowboy boots all the time. Your feet can’t breathe in those things. You know what? I know  _ how _ you do it, I don’t know  _ why _ you do it.”

Hutch grins up at him, rubbing his ankles a bit absently, and then running his hands up and down his calves while his feet soak. He's curious: “Okay, smart guy. How  _ do _ I do it?”

“The same way you feed yourself that wheatgrass liver smoothie for breakfast every morning,” Starsky says, tipping his head back and letting Hutch do what he wants. “Self loathing.”

Hutch can't help but laugh. “The dessicated liver was  _ one _ time, Starsk. A joke. My smoothies are vegetarian! Mostly.” 

“I don’t believe you in the least,” Starsky says, but his voice sounds distant and distracted. “You and your pretty eyes are working for the liver industry.”

He's really working into the meat of his calf when he pulls one of Starsky’s legs out of the water. “There, this one isn't so bad.”

He pats it dry and applies two band aids, and begins rubbing his feet, gently. “Does this hurt?”

Starsky only winces faintly. “Only because it’s already tender. It’ll feel great in a few seconds, partner, but you don’t have to. We both had a pretty long day.”

Hutch ignores this and dries Starsky’s other foot, which requires three band-aids over blisters (two of which had already split). He works his thumbs over the balls of his partner’s feet, one by one, until he’s groaning instead of gasping. 

“Okay,” Hutch offers, slightly teasing but slightly serious, “why don’t you get ready for bed and I’ll  _ really  _ do a number on you?” 

Starsky feels relaxed enough to agree, probably, to anything Hutch suggests, muscles already loose and whole body pliant to suggestion. There was just something about having all of the pain and tension worked out by his very attentive partner. “What number are we talking about?” 

“How about we start with a massage,” Hutch suggests, leaning in between Starsky’s knees to kiss him, “and see where that leads us.”

Reaching down, Starsky pulls Hutch up onto the bed with him, and they both sink into the sloshing waterbed, as Starsky struggles out of his his shirt and then his pants, which he seems content to just leave bunched up in a tangle with the blankets. “Thanks, by the way. I’m not so sure about wearing these weird clothes all the time, but you sure did look good in that silly maroon suit.”

“Excuse you, there was nothing silly about that suit,” Hutch says, but with fond amusement as he watches Starsky “get ready for bed.” He's toddler-sleepy and even more in the mood to cuddle than usual. Hutch slides over on top of him, pressing him deep into the fold of the waterbed. Hutch still feels like a landlubber on this thing, but it is nice once you're all situated. No wonder it's so hard to get Starsky out of bed in the mornings. “You got any lotion, or massage oil?”

“You’re not gonna crack open a coconut with your bare hands?” Starsky asks, sleepy and amused. He makes a vague gesture toward the bedside table: apparently having lotion is less important than the lube he keeps tucked in between the frame and mattress. “Or squeeze oil from a bunch of olives? Color me surprised.”

With his arms around Hutch’s middle, he hardly seems to care if, how, and when any lotion is produced, instead, he just holds tight to his partner, giving a contented sigh. “Next time, you can be Rafferty.”

“Yeah, okay.” Hutch rolls his eyes, though Starsky doesn’t see it. “If you don’t let me up, I can’t do any of those things, partner.” 

He kisses Starsky between the eyes and frees himself from his hold, the bed wobbling as he reaches for the lotion in the bedside drawer. It’s got some floral scent, and Hutch wonders which girl left it here, and how much Starsky will complain in the morning when he smells like a petunia. He doesn’t think he’ll care now. 

“Come here, bud,” Hutch says, sitting back against one of the sturdy posts and pulling both Starsky’s feet into his lap to begin working on. 

“Why’d you go all the way down there?” Starsky wonders, though he can lay flat, tilt his head back, and still watch Hutch. One of the less apparent benefits of a mirrored ceiling was the facilitation of laziness. He can feel the pressure Hutch puts into each motion, sliding smooth and soft over Starsky’s skin, and honestly he wouldn’t put it past Hutch to be using some kind of knowledge of pressure points or something on him. In any other circumstance, it would be winding Starsky up, getting his blood pounding under his skin.

In this case, he just goes so utterly relaxed and boneless that it takes Hutch a few minutes to realize he’s surrendered totally to sleep. 

“Are you serious,” Hutch says, and laughs as he continues to knead his feet and calves, but Starsky doesn’t stir. He wanted to go further, but that will wait, he supposes, until the morning. 


End file.
